W Butterfly
by SirIntegrity
Summary: No one ever told him because they thought it was obvious. Twenty years later, she returns to haunt him. Inspired by the play "M Butterfly" by David Hwang; rated M for mild language and sexual conduct. WalterxGirlycard


Disclaimer: Own nothing. Or else "The Dawn" would have been made into an anime.

How? They had asked him if they caught word of what had happened. Sometimes it was left at just that. Usually the question was longer.

Walter C. Dorneaz was down to his shirt and pants, legs spread as he stared into the fire. A half bottle of whiskey was clenched tightly in one hand, his gray eyes removed from the present. Integra hadn't understood it when he came in and had seen her not alone. She thought the anger was towards her, as though she had done something wrong. It wasn't her fault. Those feelings were towards the Pandora's box she had opened with that basement door.

If he closed his eyes, if he shifted through the wreckage he had been left with… He could feel her smooth skin. Could hear her lightly accented falsetto voice. Could taste the wet tongue so cool against his.

"You did me wrong, Walter." His eyes opened, flicking towards a dark corner. Speak of the devil… Half of him blamed the drink in his fist for muddling his mind. But she had never been so clear in his delusions.

He would never forget the way Arthur looked at him; incredulous, as though Walter was mentally handicapped. "How could you?" He had asked him, a laugh in his tone, "How could you not know?" How was he supposed to know? She was the perfect girl, seductive, beautiful, strong…

How could you not know… It was a question he asked himself every time she wandered through his mind.

"I did you wrong? I think you're mistaken." He turned towards her.

Her eyes were always the first thing that caught anyone's attention; bright almost glowing red, like fresh blood from a cut or a young rose hardly blossomed. Her long black hair flowed down to her hips, hanging over her shoulders like a shawl, her bangs cut just above her perfectly etched eyebrows. A scarlet silk bathrobe hung loosely from her tall, thin physique, hinting at her small chest and her long legs. More of the milk-white flawless skin showed as she sashayed towards him, taking her sweet time.

After all this time… He wanted to laugh. After twenty years, his heart was still giving palpitations at her approach, his fingers twitching as they desired to touch her. Despite everything, the memory of those nights couldn't be pushed away.

"I'm not. You let him chain me up like a dog in that dungeon." She accused.

"Ever thought you deserved what you got?" He retaliated. Her nose wrinkled.

"Do you think I deserved to be treated like that?"

She knelt at his feet, folding her arms on his lap before resting a cheek on a knee. She gazed up at him, those ageless eyes so soft… He wanted to curl up in them. But of course it was little more than another mind game.

"I've missed you." She confessed. He frowned.

"You lied to me."

"I did no such thing. You never asked."

"Why the hell would I? You acted like a woman," she snorted.

"I _looked_ like a girl. I was plenty perverted enough for an army of men." Her hand wandered, "You liked that about me, as I recall. I even got you to do me in the bunks of one of those concentration camps." She rubbed the inside of his thigh, "We did things on that cot that would make the Nazis blush."

He pushed her hand away. She smirked, proud of herself for ruffling his feathers. Her shoulders shrugged in. He tried to pretend that he didn't notice how much more of her breasts was showing, but they both knew he had a problem with wandering eyes. His fingers dug into the arm chairs.

The devastation of that day was enough to distract him, to remind him of what had tainted all those wonderful memories. Something so large and dark it eclipsed fighting side by side, the thrill of victory and of first love, long walks in the moonlight and sharing his nicotine breath with her bloody kind. He thought all of those sideways glances from Arthur were for him falling in love with a vampire. It was strange, but he didn't give a damn. He loved her more than he had ever loved anyone.

She kissed along his foreleg tenderly before easing back up into a crouch, sliding into his lap naturally.

"Can we forget my absence, forget how you turned your back on me when I needed you most, and just…find a new normal?" She was like a kitten, her legs curled up underneath her, assuming that he'd be as willing to cuddle.

He glared at her.

"I'm not a little boy anymore."

"You didn't care about age when I told you I was five centuries old." She pointed out.

"It's inappropriate now."

"You think a monster like me cares about codes of conduct? What's a few decades to the immortal?"

"My hair's turning gray."

"And it's so very sexy."

Her arms slipped out of the sleeves. She taunted him with her bare torso, the loose tie of the robe sliding open, the smooth fig leaf slowly tumbling to the ground. Walter's knuckles turned white as he trained his eyes to stay on her face.

Images flit through his mind of the little girl with big blue eyes and long blonde hair. The daughter he never had, the precious jewel he had cared for all these years and watched grow. The innocent flower who was sleeping right above their heads, scarcely a couple years difference between her and the nude succubus in his lap.

"Surely you can differentiate me from our master," she chided lightly.

She leaned in and her soft cool lips pressed against his. Unconsciously, he kissed her back, one after the other as she failed to pull away. The old feelings returned and he so easily forgot what he had learned that day she was sentenced to starvation. His calloused fingertips traced her ribs, caressing the familiar skin. It was too easy to give in when she was so perfect.

There was no human stumbling, just brusque necessary motions as her delicate fingers unbuttoned his shirt, relieving him of it. His lips parted and her tongue slipped into his mouth, mingling with his in a fire and ice Robert Frost would be proud of. He blissfully ignored it if he accidentally brushed her fangs; if anything the danger excited him more. Only when she started working on his pants did the trance snap, the old question bubbled up violently.

How?

How could?

How could he?

How could he not?

How could he not know that this form was only one of Alucard's many, many familiars?

He pulled away from her mouth. She looked curiously at him and, even though she didn't need air, she was a bit breathy for theatrical purposes.

"You're a man," he said bluntly. She arched an eyebrow.

"What does that have to do with anything?"

"I'm not a faggot."

"Of course you're not," she agreed, her legs spreading to saddle his hips, "And neither am I. I am just a female currently, as I was all those years, trying to get into a man's pants. Age is irrelevant, or else I'd be the pedophile, and bygones are bygones."

Her, or rather his arms wrapped around Walter's shoulders. His chest was rising and falling a bit sharper than normal as that same old crazy grin curled Alucard's lips.

"I can feel one of your heads is fine with these facts," she teased, grinding against him lightly before kissing along his neck. He shivered lightly.

If this made him a faggot… Well, this was the goddamn twenty-first century.

She leaned into his ear, her crisp breath tickling his ear.

"What do you say? …am I your butterfly?"

**Le Ende**

I have always wondered if Girlycard and Walter did the nastynasty if it would make them homosexual, or at least bi. Guess that's up for interpretation.

Either way, halfway through watching M. Butterfly with Jeremy Irons I thought "yanno, I bet Alucard would pull that kind of stunt with Walter". Thus, this was born. I would recommend reading the play, watching this movie, watching the play, or looking up the summary if you have the time. Then you'll see my amusement.


End file.
